


twirling moon dust abound, lung destruction is starting

by grimatrix (gigalomancy)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Flowers, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Language of Flowers, hoping thats just the flower symbolism tag and not some weird kink shit, i dont know fucken know i just wanted to write ladies kissing and talking about flowers, i dont want 2 think abt that timeline bullshit, oh uh this is also post earth c i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigalomancy/pseuds/grimatrix
Summary: i was bored and like any normal person i of course opened a random new file in notes and just? wrote sapphicism? so have this i guess
Relationships: Jade Harley/Rose Lalonde
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	twirling moon dust abound, lung destruction is starting

**Author's Note:**

> i was bored and like any normal person i of course opened a random new file in notes and just? wrote sapphicism? so have this i guess

You take her out to the garden. It is a lonely place, regularly, its only citizens being plants and filters and walls and supplies. Sometimes, you. But the two of you are together now. You are not alone in the garden anymore.

Serpents of vegetation crawl and slide through the open cieling, entangling themselves around the beams and raising their heads to view the moon, the sun, whoever was there. Wide, spaced, black poles mark the area of their home, but it’s not a strict barrier - black, thick, sturdy branches sneak past the barrier, creepers following in tow.

Rose says nothing. She engrosses herself in a lackidasical aura, drawing a hand over her lips in mock thoughtfulness. She looks…nonplussed. But you know she is not. She observes the careful arrangement. And she thinks. Thinks of what to say. Of what to tell you.

You want to tell her she doesn’t need a constructed opinion. She doesn’t need to critique ad nauseam. You want to tell her anything she said would be fine - it would be more than fine, it’d be fantastic. You want to tell her a simple “lovely” or “this looks nice” would be sufficient.

Rose says nothing, still, but slides over to a small corner of potted plants. She squats down, catching a strand of fallen, curly hair and moving it out of her face before it even sinks. You inhale deeply before awkwardly following her, your gangly, lean body a statuesque gargoyle next to her.

You look at the girl you’ve been head over heels for years. And she raises her head, her deep brown eyes glittering like embers under the sunset. She smiles, a crooked, awkward one. But it is perfect to you. Her gaze is shaky and she quickly looks back at the flowers she’s next to.

JADE: careful, some of these maaaay or may not be poisonous

You tell her that. But as she cocks her head ever so slightly, and draws a finger to delicately bend the petals of a single, blossoming, flower, you realise she must already know about the plants here.

ROSE: Helleborus?

She asks, voice laced with curiosity. She takes a long look at the dusty violet blossoms before turning to you again.

JADE: yes! howd you know?  
JADE: gardening doesnt really strike me as a you thing

Rose looks at you with a humoured expression, her beautiful eyes becoming squinty, as an embarrassed laugh, deep and sweet, releases from her throat.

ROSE: You underestimate the power of a bored teenager with a fascination for narrative symbolism and an internet connection.

Her gaze is firm as she asks you a question.

ROSE: Do you know what they mean?

Rose doesn’t wait to elaborate. That is fine. You adore hearing her talk, the vibrato in her voice as she gets excited, the way she keeps a hand on her face as she goes on her tirade, as if shy, the way her smile grows, still awkward, still hers…the other subtle signs of her indulging in monologue and theatrics and information and most of all, enthusiasm.

ROSE: Helleborus means “relieve my anxiety”.  
ROSE: I find it interesting you plant them.  
JADE: i just picked them because they looked pretty, hehe  
JADE: it is interesting though!

Another plant has taken her attention, and you find her stance has gotten less cramped and forced. With the most elegance you’ve ever seen in your life, Rose takes your hand and tugs it gently, urging you to sit next to her.

ROSE: Orchids?  
ROSE: These must be a struggle to manage.  
JADE: oh believe me  
JADE: they are  
JADE: my knowledge heres fuzzy but they mean love and beauty, right?  
ROSE: Yes, mostly.  
ROSE: That’s also the meaning for almost every flower but I digress.  
JADE: people sure were creative when deciding these huh

She looks amused.

ROSE: Oh, and is this Justicia?  


Rose points towards a scraggly, magenta flower.

JADE: yep  
ROSE: How homoerotic.  
JADE: is it now?  
ROSE: Very much so.  
ROSE: They mean “perfection of female loveliness”.

Her voice rises a little as she speaks, and she simply does not look away from you. Your breath hitches in your throat, escaping as a foolish laugh. You gaze back into her eyes, pools of gold, and she stares back at you - you spot yourself, there, reflected in her eyes. And you observe the part of you which is there, stitched onto her, a semi-oxymoron of a person, tired but wide-eyed, curious but aware, observant but dreaming. You know a single thing, solid, with nothing added to it.

It’s that you love her.

And she knows this.

She knows this, and she loves you too. She says it right now, as she turns, gingerly, to take your hand in hers and kiss the back of it.

ROSE: You are amazing, my love.

The place where her lips touched you tingles warmly, a sensation akin to the gentle warmth of candleflame. She shifts her position, aimlessly dusting off her gray pants as she readjusts. Her black boots clink onto the floor, and she sits cross-legged to face you. You inch closer, holding your breath as you drag out a hand and place it on her cheek, gentle as can be. 

You’re stuck in an orbit of infatuation. Breathing is hard, when her face is as close to yours, when it’s this warm, when it’s this…when it’s this. When it’s like this. Rose imitates you, and she shakes a little as she delicately, slowly, carefully moves the cascading hair from your face. You anticipate her next move, and smile already.

Rose careens her head and kisses you. Her lips are warm, warm and tipped with the faint taste of coffee. You hold in your breath. She falls in your arms. You feel the beating of her heart, steady and thumping, and you feel yours, too, at the edge of your oh-so shaky fingertips, and pounding away in your ears. And they sync, and the two of you are in sync, and you stare at each other, loving and being loved at once. You only pull away to breathe, and she sighs deeply the second you do, and you look back up to her, and are striken by adoration, and love, and the fact that she is yours, and that you are hers.

You start to laugh, and feel so, so lucky. Rose laughs too, a gorgeous, sonorous chuckle, the most amazing sound you’ve ever heard. It echoes in your mind, and it sticks.

The girl made of sunlight does not tell you more. Not about flowers, not about you, not about herself. But that is fine. You already know.


End file.
